


My name is whatever you decide / And I'm just gonna call you mine

by ViolettaValery



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, BAMF Alex Manes, Dubious Morality, Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Michael Guerin/OMCs, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Power Imbalance, Restraints, Sounding, Space Royalty, Submission, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Relationships, War Prize Alex Manes, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 11:49:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20873735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolettaValery/pseuds/ViolettaValery
Summary: Antar conquers the galaxy planet by planet, a steady and ravenous advancement, and enslaves those warriors who did not fall in battle and those young men who might one day lead a rebellion. The rest of the population quickly bows in submission.It is known that Rath  - or Michael, as they all carry a name that is their own rather in addition to an inherited title -- will exchange freedom for a night of submission, freely and completely given.The day after Antar finally wins its decades-long war against the humans, a dark-haired beauty awaits him when he enters his chambers.





	My name is whatever you decide / And I'm just gonna call you mine

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags, y'all. This is a darkfic. The consent is seriously dubious and there's nothing safe or sane about anything that happens. 
> 
> Title, as always, from a Taylor Swift song.

Antar conquers the galaxy planet by planet, a steady and ravenous advancement.

Rath leads the conquering forces; Vildandra rules; and Zan – Zan mopes over Liz.

Sometimes they wonder whether Zan is one of them, since he seems to have been born without the bloodlust they all share.

So Antar conquers, and enslaves those warriors who did not fall in battle and those young men who might one day lead a rebellion, and the rest of the population quickly bows in submission.

It is known that Rath - or Michael, as they all carry a name that is their own rather in addition to an inherited title -- will exchange freedom for a night of submission, freely and completely given. It is almost as well known that he likes the ones that make the prettiest sounds, a fact the guards watching over newly-captured prisoners always conveniently mention within hearing range.

There are always those who choose to make the trade.

He never simply _takes, _nor does he damage them. That is too crude a way to obtain what he wants, reserved for the battlefield and the torture chamber.

Instead, he lets them come to him and _give. _

One had knelt before him and offered up a whip with bowed head. Michael’s laugh had been gentle, before he beckoned the boy to follow and showed him an entire room of everything from the gentlest floggers to the cruelest whips.

He’d made the boy choose.

“Oh, my sweet dove,” he’d cooed. “It is not freely given if I decide and you merely endure.”

Trembling, the boy had laid out a series of belts and floggers and whips, then followed Michael’s guidance to restrain himself, locking wrists and ankles until he hung as much as stood, spread-eagled, naked skin begging for the kiss of the whip.

He’d sobbed so beautifully, though no pleas crossed his lips, his head hung and his tears sweet to the taste as Michael reddened every inch of skin on his back, his bottom, his legs. He drank the trembling, wrenching sobs like ambrosia, intoxicated, and grew hard.

Pressing again the boy from behind, his arousal pressed against the pain that elicited it, Michael tilts his head up and brushes a tear away with his thumb, tasting its sweetness. “Do you want me to stop, sweetheart?” he coaxes.

“That is for you to choose, Majesty,” he’d croaked hoarsely, throat raw from sobs.

“But you do, don’t you?” Michael presses, and the boy nods, sobbing again.

“Perfect,” he says approvingly, before walking around him to pick up the whip.

He only has a handful of blows with it, he knows, before those beautiful sobs turn to ugly, shrill screams. One, and the boy cries out, surprised. The second splits skin, the rivulet of blood hugging his waist in a caress. The third, and the first shrill, desperate notes creep into his cry.

He throws the whip aside and brings himself off with his hand. With a flick of the wrist, the restraints come undone. He feels merciful today and catches the boy on a cushion of air as he falls to the ground.

“You have your freedom,” he says, stalking off and leaving his attendants to clean up the mess. They’re probably gentle, faces drawn with pity, but Michael doesn’t much care. He has what he wants; the boy is irrelevant to him now.

Another had oh-so-willingly allowed Michael to bind him to the bed and wring orgasm after orgasm out of his exhausted body. Michael had milked him dry and not stopped there, and the boy’s cock twitches pathetically beneath Michael’s hand; another orgasm rips out of him along with a sob.

“Please. Please, Rath, my ruler, my lord,” he babbles as Michael fucks into him, slow and attentive, hitting that sweet spot that had elicited cries of pleasure three orgasms ago.

“Are you begging me to stop, or not to stop?” Michael asks wickedly.

“I don’t know,” the boy sobs.

“Dealer’s choice, then,” Michael says, thrusting in harder, and the boy lets out a wail.

“Hush,” Michael soothes. “You’re doing so well.”

The boy trembles beneath his hands like an injured bird as Michael fills him with his own climax. He loves that almost as much as the pitiful sounds that accompany it.

“My perfect little dove,” he coos.

Yesterday’s gift had been the most remarkable, though. “Pain arouses me,” he’d confessed in answer to Michael’s question of what he brings.

He’d let himself be restrained with a complex array of knots and gotten hard when Michael sounded him, had stayed hard and stayed still as Michael put thicker and thicker rods inside him. He’d made the most beautiful sounds, too, a series of whimpers, each precious in itself, strung together like a necklace of gemstones.

Eventually, he’d thrown his head back and let out a beautiful, plaintive groan as Michael played with the thickest of the rods inside him. He’d placed his hand on the boy’s throat, tempted to squeeze so he knew that he was entirely in Michael’s power. But the boy hadn’t even struggled against his restraints, and so Michael left his hand to be a gentle pressure, a passing reminder.

After, he’d given the boy riches in addition to his freedom. 

The day after Antar finally wins its decades-long war against the humans, a dark-haired beauty awaits him when he enters his chambers.

He does not kneel, and Michael sighs internally. Another one of those who think that playing at resistance is a trick that no one’s tried before.

“You must not understand how this works,” Michael tells him.

The man – and he is certainly a man, past the first bloom of youth – regards him coolly as Michael approaches. When he’s close, he draws a knife.

Michael deflects it automatically, instinct and inhuman powers aiding him as he grabs hold of the knife and presses it to the man’s throat, preemptively annoyed by the pleas to come.

But the human doesn’t utter a word. He regards Michael coolly, ignoring the blade at his throat.

Michael presses the knife down, drawing blood.

Not a muscle twitches.

He’s so surprised that he doesn’t notice the human move, knocking the blade aside and bringing Michael to the ground. The next second, he’s straddling Michael, hand at his throat.

“Give me my freedom,” he demands.

Michael indulges him, letting him squeeze until darkness threatens the corners of his vision, before throwing him off easily.

“Darling, did you really think no one’s tried that before?” he drawls as the human regards him, shocked.

Michael approaches. The human doesn’t back away, holds himself tall and still.

“What is your name?”

“Alex.”

“Alex,” he repeats.

He doesn’t introduce himself. If Alex is already here, he knows.

“You’re a remarkable one,” he continues, tracing his features with a finger. Alex doesn’t react. “You could work wonders in this world, if you were free. You deserve to be more. And the price is but one night of submission, for a life free from it.”

“I cannot give you what I do not have,” Alex says. “My submission does not exist.”

Curious, Michael thinks, that he does not argue with the very premise. Does not insist that Michael could throw the rules out the window and make an _exception _with a flick of his wrist.

“That is never true. Anyone can be broken.”

“Then you are welcome to try. Take from me what I do not know how to give.”

“I do not _take,_” Michael hisses, but Alex stands before him, infuriatingly calm, and Michael _wants, _more than he’s ever wanted in the entire galaxy that he’s taken.

He tilts Alex’s head up with a knuckle.

“I will have it.”

“Do your worst,” Alex says. “I mean that truly.” 

Michael summons the knife to his hand and slices Alex’s shirt open, buttons scattering as the knife parts its folds. Alex doesn’t so much as blink when the blade nicks him. He stands still as Michael pushes the shirt off his shoulders and takes him in.

He has the body of a warrior, that much is immediately apparent, hard muscle and scars. His skin is beautifully tanned by the sun of his world, and silver glints in his nipple.

Michael blinks at it. He had not known humans shared this custom for decorating their bodies.

Alex arches an eyebrow, as if to ask _do you like it_?

“Strip,” is all the answer he gives.

Alex obeys, taking off his boots first, then his pants. They fall to the ground, revealing a prosthetic leg instead of his right one. He stands lazily, assurance in every limb, as Michael takes him in.

Michael lets a pleased expression fill his features. Oh, but Alex is enticing every way, that coiled strength and fierce posture contrasting beautifully with his soft locks and dark eyes.

Michael will enjoy taking him apart.

With an easy push of his powers, he sends Alex tumbling backwards onto the bed, where he lies still, though his eyes follow attentively as Michael approaches and kneels between his legs.

Michael pleasures him with every trick he knows. He uses his hands, his mouth, his cock, or even all three at the same time. He pulls orgasm after orgasm from Alex, paying human refractory periods no mind as he lavishes endless attention on the body before him.

Alex’s body reacts to his ministrations, but Alex does not. 

Every night, Alex comes obediently to him, sometimes naked, sometimes clad in a silk robe that he swiftly drops, for Michael to do with him as he will. Michael adds toys and restraints to his repertoire of tricks, and Alex easily allows himself to be bound. He does nothing more than raise an eyebrow when Michael’s powers replace the restraints. His mouth parts in a silent O when Michael’s powers pleasure him along with his cock.

And every night, through climax after climax, he feels only that Alex _allows _this, despite Michael’s powers or his bonds holding Alex down. He lets fall moans; he even gasps in pleasure. But each sound is empty; each is _nothing. _There are no cries of ecstasy and none of the desperation that he has come to expect from lovers in the heat of passion. When Michael pleasures him within an inch of his life, his body sore and overstimulated from the half-dozen orgasms Michael has coaxed from him, he does not beg. When Michael brings him to the edge of climax and then denies him for hours, for _days, _Alex does not beg. He trembles and squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lips, but not a single tear falls from his eyes, not a single plea from his lips.

After weeks of this, he’s frustrated enough to complain to Vilandra.

“You’ve been trying to break him with pleasure, and clearly it’s ineffective,” she tells him. Known as Vilandra the Vicious, her tastes run similar to Michael’s, though for the longest time, she has been obsessed with just one human. A feisty thing, named after a thorny human flower. Michael hadn’t understood her obsession until now. 

“What would you have me try, pain?” he asks, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

“Hardly,” she says. “He’d merely endure it. But men who cannot be broken with pain are that way because they have endured so much of it that it has become unremarkable. You must break him with the thing he would never expect.”

And suddenly, Michael knows what to do.

That night, when Alex comes to his chambers and lays a pliant body on his bed, Michael kisses him oh-so-softly.

It’s a novel experience, and he finds he almost likes it.

“You are so beautiful,” Michael murmurs against Alex’s lips, the words sickly sweet in his mouth. “I am lucky to have you.”

Shock blooms on Alex’s face, the way blood blooms from a wound, swiftly followed by fear.

Michael plants gentle kisses atop that shattered expression, because it is _his. _He put it there. For the first time, Alex struggles against his restraints, turning his face away from Michael’s kisses.

But Michael merely moves to his chest, covering every inch of his skin in them. “And this,” he adds, tonguing the ring in Alex’s nipple. “So enticing. It must have hurt, but I bet you didn’t even blink.”

Alex squeezes his eyes shut and looks away, tears trickling over his face and into the pillow. 

He kisses down to Alex’s leg, where his prosthetic attaches. He kisses at the line where skin becomes metal.

Alex sobs.

The sound echoes through the chambers like a gunshot, and Michael freezes.

Oh, but he wants to hear it again.

“You are so strong,” Michael murmurs as gentle fingers trace scars. “I cannot even imagine the agony of losing a limb, but you survived it. It must pain you, but never have I heard a word of complaint.”

This time, he gets to relish the sound because he knows to expect it.

“So brave, too,” he continues. “I’ve never so much as seen you flinch. I don’t think I’ve ever met a man as fearless as you.”

“Don’t,” Alex whispers. “Please.”

“Hush. You are strong enough to survive even this,” Michael soothes, and Alex makes a truly inhuman sound.

When they are finished, Michael brushes the tears from his cheek and tastes, but they have no sweetness.

When he releases the restraints, Alex rises with broken grace. He leaves with freedom and a title, and Michael with an unfamiliar emptiness inside his chest.

It turns out that in his time as Michael’s prize, Alex had observed from his gilded cage. He is almost fluent in Antarian, familiar with their customs, knowledgeable of their hierarchies and manners. He knows the most powerful nobles at court and wields the respect of the guards and servants.

No one knows why he is the only prize Michael has kept for a night, and the things they assume are kinder to Michael’s reputation than the truth.

Michael does not fail to realize that should Alex choose, he can wield that truth. But he remains silent on that point.

He resists it, but he _wants. _He falls asleep imagining Alex’s moans of pleasure; he dreams of the way his body arches in climax; he wakes to thoughts of his lips, swollen from biting as Michael brings him off.

He never dreams of Alex’s tears, and tells himself it does not matter.

Rumor is unavoidable in the Antarian court, and even more so when a human carries an Antarian title. Everyone is curious about the prize that retained their warrior-ruler’s attention for weeks. Everyone wants him in their bed and Alex denies few of them. He cannot turn anywhere without hearing of Alex’s talented mouth, the size of his cock, his cries of pleasure – and, a thread running through every snippet of rumor, his iron will and unyielding control.

Prize after prize comes to him. He accepts what they offer, but their most beautiful cries feel like pale imitations of what he once had. He keeps his word and gives freedom to those who earn it, because if he did not, whispers would spread through the court.

Alex continues as he had before. He grows bolder, his body constantly on display, his eyes lined in darkness, accepting the flirtations of the most illustrious (and married).

Michael watches him from afar, desire growing with each day, with each courtier that Alex ensnares with his charms. He marvels at how seamlessly Alex fits into the Antarian court, unfazed by a life far from everything he has ever known. He admires how Alex plays them all like a violin, spinning webs, gaining allies, coming triumphant out of court intrigues. Even Isobel remarks upon it, mentioning offhand that he’d make a fine ruler to replace her.

Michael remembers how fearless Alex had been with a knife at his throat, seeing it now in the boldness with which he makes a place for himself, and he _wants. _

He freezes with a glass of wine halfway to his lips as he realizes how much those thoughts resemble the words of praise he’d murmured against Alex’s skin on their last night together.

He corners Alex that night, on his way to his chambers just outside the palace complex.

“Your Majesty.” Alex bows with perfect precision. He’s learned the customs so well one might think he was a born Antarian. “How may I be of service?”

“I want you,” Michael says bluntly.

Alex regards him questioningly. “What is it that you would have from me, exactly, Your Majesty?” he asks without an ounce of emotion.

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps.

“As you wish.” His tone still neutral.

“I want you,” Michael repeats. “Not anything else.”

“You have that right, if that is what you wish.” He’s not wrong, and Michael almost longs to invoke his right as ruler, but he knows it would be a prize as empty as every single one he’s had since Alex left his bed.

Furious, Michael backs him up against a wall.

“What happened to you?” he demands. “You were not – _this _– when I first had you.”

“That is how you want me now, is it not?” Alex asks, his neutral tone a mockery. “You have had my compliance, and now you desire its opposite to wrap around your fingers as you will.”

Michael stares at him in rage.

“I do not know how to give it,” Alex says, an echo that drives Michael mad.

Michael kisses him, and Alex – _allows _it. That is all that can be said of it. Returns the kiss, even, the motions perfect and sterile.

“What would you have from me, in exchange?” Michael demands.

Alex traces his features pensively with a finger.

“What would you give me, Rath?”

Michael blinks at the name; it is the name of a conqueror, the one that strikes fear into any that hear it, not the name he uses daily. It is a symbol.

His mouth does not know how to form the word “anything.”

Alex takes that in.

“When you figure it out, come to me, and we will see if it’s sufficient.”

He lasts a week before he comes to Alex, who bids him enter. He lounges upon an armchair as if it were a thrown, regal in the unpracticed way of those born to it.

Michael falls to his knees.

“Anything you wish,” he offers.

Alex considers him coolly. It is a strange sensation. Is that how each of his prizes had felt, the weight in their chest as they wondered if they would be enough? The – he frowns.

Is this what fear feels like?

Curious.

“Anything,” Alex repeats carefully.

“Yes,” Michael breathes.

“Tell me, Rath, is your submission something you will give, or will I have to take?”

Michael gazes up at him and begs, “take it.”

Alex stands and strips. He walks slowly to the bed and spreads himself out on it, then beckons to Michael with a lazy gesture.

Michael settles between his legs and waits for instruction. He takes Alex in, sprawling insouciantly on silk sheets. He is gorgeous to behold and Michael’s heart thunders. Excitement courses through him at the thought that he will get to have Alex again.

“Get yourself ready for me,” Alex instructs. “_Slowly.” _

He watches intently as Michael summons oil from Alex’s beside to his hand and reaches back with a finger. Michael is never one to deny himself pleasure if there is no reason for it, and he takes his time. He’s not opening himself for Alex, he’s pleasuring himself, the unabashed noises he makes a challenge. 

Alex places a hand on his thigh and watches intently. His touch is light, but to Michael, it burns with heat, just like Alex’s gaze on him. Five, ten, fifteen minutes, and still Alex only watches as Michael fucks himself on his fingers, his desperation growing as he craves _more. _

“Enough,” Alex says eventually. 

_Finally, _Michael thinks, withdrawing his fingers and eying Alex’s cock, curving thick and enticing over his stomach.

“You finally gonna put your dick in me?” he asks.

“No,” Alex says curtly.

He sees the look on Michael’s face and an entirely too-satisfied expression spreads over his face. “You have never been denied anything in your life, have you?” he asks.

“No one would dare.” Though that is not entirely true. Growing up, his father had put through the strictest training to forge him into a warrior and hone his powers. His control could be iron, because no one survives being Rath without discipline.

But since he inherited that title, he has been the only one who could demand that of himself.

“Those are the easiest people to break, I have found,” Alex says, like he has _broken _people before.

“You didn’t break me.”

“Oh, darling,” Alex says. “Do you really think I didn’t know what I was doing, from the very first day?”

“Was it real, then?” Michael demands. “Or just an act?”

“I spoke truly when I told you to take what I could not give. And you did. Such _cruel _words you used, too.” He brushes one of Michael’s curls away from his face gently. “I just knew I would not be the only one to break.”

“I could do it again,” Michael threatens.

Alex considers this.

“Could you?” he wonders aloud. “This time, I do not think you could convince either of us that your words are a lie. No, if you did it again, you would mean them. And I don’t think you could stomach that, my dearest Rath.”

“Have me your way, then,” he offers, inflecting resignation into his voice.

He is Rath. He knows not all things can be taken by force.

Alex considers him coolly, and Michael seethes. Has Alex truly not decided yet what he wants?

“I think, tonight, you will fuck _me,_” Alex decides, letting his legs fall open wider.

Michael needs no other enticement. Under Alex’s watchful gaze, he lowers his head and opens Alex up with his fingers, then his tongue. He takes his time with it, slow flicks of the tongue that tease at Alex’s hole before delving inside, his fingers pressing inside Alex in practiced movements.

He doesn’t make a single sound Michael hasn’t heard before.

When Michael has exhausted every trick he’s learned, Alex pulls him up by the curls, pressing their bodies together, and Michael doesn’t wait another second. He slides into Alex (and gods above, it feels like coming _home _to sheathe himself again in that body) and Alex lets out a contented sigh.

“Fuck me,” he instructs. “Slow and deep.”

Michael obeys. Alex shifts, changing the angle; he lets his head fall back and closes his eyes, contentment over his features. The curve of his throat calls to Michael; so delicate and unprotected as Alex lies back, it would fit so perfectly into his hand -

“Deeper,” Alex orders. “I don’t want to remember that anything else exists besides your cock in me.”

“Hard to do that when I have to go slow,” Michael objects.

Alex’s eyes snap open.

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” he says. He reaches a hand reaches down to touch himself, stroking himself swiftly, and it urges Michael to speed up.

Alex fixes his gaze on Michael again.

“_Slowly,_” he says, while his own hand shows no sign of slowing down. “For goodness’ sakes, show some _technique._” 

Michael bristles at that. If Alex wants technique, he’ll get technique. Michael isn’t a _brute, _after all. He certainly knows how to pleasure a lover.

He digs his hands into Alex’s hips, raising them up off the bed, and sheathes himself fully inside Alex with each thrust. He knows that, at this angle, he’s hitting the sensitive spot inside Alex, whose breathing quickens. He closes his eyes again, his own hand teasing his cock as he uses Michael’s body to pleasure himself. Michael can tell Alex is close, with the way his muscles tense imperceptibly in anticipation of his climax, his body getting ready to arch off the bed, and maybe Michael will get at least a gasp, or a stifled moan -

“Stop,” Alex orders, even as his own hand shows no sign of doing so.

Michael freezes the second the word falls from Alex’s lips. The next second, he realizes there is no one in existence who has the right to give him an order. The only one who had ever been able to was his father, now long gone, his title the only thing that remained of him.

In a lithe movement, he has Alex pinned, his cock still inside.

“You have no right to give orders here. It is _my _right to have you as I wish.”

“It is,” Alex agrees. “If you wish to have your way, your Majesty, I will lie back and think of Antar.”

Michael thrusts in again, once, twice, to demonstrate. Alex lies still and pliant, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, not a muscle twitching in his face. His body is Michael’s, but _Alex _is elsewhere, in whatever place he goes to in his mind.

Furious, Michael puts his hands around Alex’s throat and squeezes.

“I could kill you for this,” he snarls.

Alex merely blinks up at him, his face as expressionless as it had been with a knife at his throat, and Michael needs to _know. _

“What made you like this?” he asks.

“You did,” Alex says simply, and Michael jolts, flabbergasted.

“Do you know how I lost my leg?” Alex continues conversationally. “I was captured. Your father, _Rath, _tortured me. He had healing powers, you recall? He broke my leg and then he healed it, again and again. But every time you break a human bone, it gets weaker, even when it heals, until eventually, there was nothing left to do but cut it off. Oh, how I screamed.” He pauses, and Michael remains still, drinking in every single one of his words. “You mocked me, when you called me strong for surviving it, but you had _no idea. _I lost my limb, my fear of death, and the last of my innocence that day. You inherited his war when I killed him and carried it on, until I ended up here. So you see, _Rath, _there is nothing you could possibly do to me that would make me give you what you desire.”

Everything falls into place then, Alex’s fearlessness as well as his certainty that he had no submission to give. His words echo in Michael’s mind: _do your worst. _

For the first time, he understands the true extent of what Alex meant.

He _should _feel fury at the helpless human beneath his hands. He should avenge his father, so tragically lost when his ship blew up in an engagement with the human forces several years ago. No one had been able to figure out what went wrong with their systems, so complex and intricate few Antarians even understood how they worked. It would be so easy, now, to snap Alex’s neck with a flick of the wrist and restore the balance of justice.

But instead, his fury dissipates like fog in sunlight, replaced by unadulterated wonder. He realizes, in that moment, that he holds something truly rare and precious, a being it would be anathema to destroy: someone he cannot break.

He jerks his hands from Alex’s throat like he’s been burned.

When he glances down, Alex is still hard. Meeting Michael’s gaze, Alex reaches down and finishes himself off at a leisurely pace. When he comes, he lets out a quiet, contented sigh.

Michael watches, hands itching to touch his own leaking cock.

He doesn’t dare move.

Finished with himself, Alex reaches for him and strokes him lazily, much too slow. Frustrated, he thrusts into Alex’s hand, and immediately, it is taken away. Sighing, Michael stills.

“Should I let you climax today, do you think?” Alex asks pensively as he continues to stroke him lazily. “Or shall I make you wait until tomorrow night?”

Michael lets out a plaintive sound but dares voice no other protest.

Alex cocks his head.

“Would you touch yourself, if I left you wanting tonight?”

“I don’t know,” he says. He thinks of nights without Alex, his bed empty as Alex withholds _himself. _Of Alex in another’s bed, another’s hands profaning the altar of his body.

The thought is unbearable.

“No,” he confesses.

“Hmm.” Alex draws the sound out, but his movements speed up, and it is all Michael can do not to buck helplessly into his hand. “Would you tell me, if you did?”

_That _is a harder question, and he has no answer that he can bear to speak.

“Fuck you, Alex,” he says instead.

Alex hums. “In time, you will not offer such resistance.”

“In time?” he repeats, trying vainly to keep the excitement from his voice.

“Oh yes. Did you think I was finished with you?” Alex’s movements speed up, so that Michael’s climax hits him when Alex says the words, “You are mine, Michael.”

His very being should rage at those words. Rath of Antar belongs to no one.

But all Michael can feel is relief that Alex, too, _wants. _

Over the next few months, Alex comes to his chambers every day. He bends Michael over every surface and fucks him, again and again, until he’s sore and desperate, come leaking out of his hole while bruises form on his hips, where they slammed repeatedly into furniture as Alex used him.

It would be easy to heal them, but he keeps them; in moments of boredom, he traces these kisses that stay on his skin long after Alex has left for the night.

Alex forces Michael to bring him off with his mouth, again and again, his own arousal forgotten. Michael kneels before him, uses every trick he knows, and feasts on the unabashed sounds of pleasure Alex begins to gift him with.

Sometimes, Alex even tells him about himself, in the exhausted lethargic moments after the umpteenth orgasm. The pieces of his history fall into place one by one, each more miraculous than the last, and Michael presses each one close and marvels at it.

But mostly, Alex favors vibrating toys that he can control remotely, ones that leave Michael aroused and wanting at Alex’s whim. Today, he’s tied Michael to the bed, spread-eagled and face-down. The toy vibrates inside him, and he rubs helplessly against the bed, but each movement presses the toy into his prostate, sending waves of need to course through him that he cannot relieve.

He growls and rages, the sounds muffled by pillows, as Alex watches and strokes himself.

“Oh, what beautiful sounds you make,” Alex praises. “_Exquisite._”

His restraints come undone in a single moment, the vibrator inside him inert. Alex doesn’t move from where he sprawls, naked and regal, as Michael rises and stalks over to him. Even as Michael towers over him, he continues to stroke his cock leisurely, a nonchalant eyebrow raised. 

Gods above, he’s remarkable, and he has chosen _Michael _to give his attention to.

Michael stands ready to unleash his fury and finds that he wants to fall to his knees instead. 

He lets Alex put him back in his place, relieved that Alex still _wants, _and discovers what it feels like to belong with each knot that Alex ties. 

After that, he lets the sounds fall unchecked from his lips as the vibrator speeds up, and he drinks in the contented sighs Alex makes as he brings himself to climax.

The next time Alex uses the vibrator, Michael stays obediently where Alex put him. Alex marks him, splattering come all over his skin as he comes with an unrestrained cry. He runs a finger through it and brings it to Michael’s lips, and Michael licks it clean greedily.

Alex lets out a pleased moan at the sight that Michael holds close and dear for the week of abstinence Alex inflicts on him after.

In time, Alex begins to deny him climax, bringing him to the edge and leaving him wanting for hours, for _days, _with the order to not touch.

He doesn’t even consider disobeying, and when Alex finally grants him release, he weeps at how sweet it is, and he gets high on every word of praise Alex bestows upon him, each one honied and intoxicating as ambrosia.

In return, Alex touches only him. Michael worships at his altar, and Alex lets no other into the temple.

“You’re _mine, _Rath,” Alex purrs as he fucks Michael’s face for the third time that day.

He shivers at how well the word fits.

“Yours,” he vows, hoarse, once he has the use of his mouth back and Alex’s cry of pleasure has settled into his skin. “Forever.”

“Forever,” Alex agrees, and Michael knows the greatest joy of his existence.

It is Antarian custom that the one who kills a ruler has the right to take his place and title.

A year later, Alex is crowned Rath as Michael kneels, his willing prize.

When Antar next takes a planet, Michael discovers that Alex also loves the beautiful broken sounds their prizes make. Together, they coax forth symphonies.

And when they are finished, Alex turns his attention to Michael, a soloist playing a melody upon his own beloved instrument after the concert has finished.

**Author's Note:**

> So....this is probably the most ambiguous fic I've written? If you're wondering about the true nature of Alex and Michael's relationship by the end, that's as intended. I don't have a particular way I intended it to be interpreted, so I'm curious to see what the response will be and how y'all will read it. I welcome comments, interpretations, questions, debates... go wild!


End file.
